


Fucking Serendipitiy

by Gebo



Series: A Different Fucking Morality [3]
Category: Bobby Squared - Fandom, Dead Fish (2005), Trainspotting (1996)
Genre: Crossover, M/M, Swearing, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-26
Updated: 2013-04-26
Packaged: 2018-07-11 16:49:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7061116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gebo/pseuds/Gebo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Later that day, a chance meeting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fucking Serendipitiy

Frank Begbie did not do drugs. Not the kind the rest of his mates had wasted their lives away daein, anyways. He did not open his vein with contaminated needles and pump poison into his body from a syringe. He much preferred a nice pint of lager and a line of speed over that intravenous junkie shite. It made him shudder to know that at this very moment, half of his own friends might be cooking up their next hit and pushing it home. He cringed at the thought of letting a needle pierce his own skin. Likely aw fucking haed the human immuno-de-ficiency virus by now, the eediot cunts.

He probably did too, come to fucking think about it. He shook his head. How could he have been such a stupid cunt? He’d done some unbelievable fucking things in his time while drunk, or speeding, or even while just plain fucking sober, but this took the fucking cake. That minging cunt from the club, the manager or owner or whatever he was, was owed a fucking chib in the gut for taking advantage of a gadge in no condition to be making fucking intelligent decisions. The cunt had pulled some reverse-fucking-psychology on him, he must have, Franco couldnae even fucking remember.

His head had been swimming all morning, inhibiting his ability to walk in a straight line, much less carry on any sort of conversation wi' Sick Boy. He sat on the edge of the sofa and stared at the wall opposite him as the cunt went on and on about James fucking Bond, as per fucking usual. Would the loud-mouthed cunt never fucking stop going on about Sean cunting Connery? Fir fuck’s sake! Eh haed tae grow ootay it at some fucking point!

For the moment, Frank couldn’t process anything but the hideous wallpaper on the wall in front of him. Who fucking decided tae cover the entire flat wi' that shite? It looked like something that’d been boaked up by a cunt whit haed ett a flower shop.

His eyes blurred and he groaned, leaning against the back of the sofa and letting his head fall over the edge until he was staring at the ceiling. He wanted to kill something; he wanted to find that bufty fucking cunt of a bar owner and tear the cunt’s arms from his body and punch his fucking teeth so far down his throat they’d fall out the other side. He wanted to know what happened last night.

He knew what fucking happened. He’d been fucking… seduced, or some shite. He’d been drugged, that was it. His drink had been spiked and he’d been fucking out of his mind. He couldn’t remember much after his last drink, the cunt had obviously slipped him something.

“FUCK!” he screamed, tearing to his feet and falling right over the coffee table. He landed on his arms, his face catching the edge of the telly and knocking it backwards. “ _FUCK_!” He rolled over, his head now pounding twice as much, and clutched at his face.

“Alright, Franco?” He only just realized Simon had stopped talking and was watching him with interest. “No fucking hungover, Ah hope?”

“Git tae fuck!” Franco shouted at him, amidst the grunts of pain. He grabbed for something to throw at the cunt, but the only thing that his hand closed around was the glass ashtray he had knocked from the table. He pelted it in Simon’s direction, and judging by the crack and shout of pain, his aim had been true.

“The fuck, Beggars?! Ah’m just fucking asking ye 'ow you are!” Simon shouted at him, and Frank heard the cunt stumble away fir the toilet, undoubtedly to check in the mirror that his perfect face wasn’t bleeding, the cunt.

Franco clambered to his feet and swayed on the spot. One hand shot out to steady himself against the wall. That horrid fucking wallpaper.

The telephone rang, and the shrill tone sent a jolt of agony through Begbie’s skull. He’d throw the the thing across the fucking room if it didn’t stop soon. No…. Easier tae just answer it. He stumbled over tae the opposite waw, removed the receiver fae its cradle, and pit it tae his ear.

“Aye?” he grunted, but the man on the other line wis awready well intae a fountain ay colourful language. “The fuck–,” Franco jerked the phone away fae his ear, the volume of the other man loud enough to hear just fine fae several inches away.

“–and don’t you be fuckin’ thinking that I’ll leave those pretty fuckin’ girls of yours fuckin’ alone, Williamson. I’ll fuckin’ make sure those whores are so fuckin’ happy they won’t want another fuckin’ night any fuckin’ street corner ever fuckin’ again, d’you fuckin’ understand what I’m fuckin’ saying to you, Simon? I will put you so fuckin’ far out of that business, you won’t fuckin’ be able to buy a fuck for all the money in the wide fuckin’ world.” Begbie felt like his guts were boiling with rage. Why did this seem so familiar to him?

“I have fuckin’ had it up to here with you Scots fuckers. Never fuckin’ pay in time, never have a fucking shred of fuckin’ respect for Da–”

“This isnae Simon,” Begbie interjected, cutting the man off mid-sentence.

There was a long pause and then, “Well, who the fuck am I fuckin’ speaking to, then? This is Simon fuckin’ Williamson’s fuckin’ number, isn’t it? It’s the number he fuckin’ gave me. The loser better not have given me a fake fuckin’ number! Nobody fuckin’ gives Danny Devine the wrong fuckin’ number!”

“Haud the fuck oan, ya jumpy twitty cunt,” Frank spat into the receiver. “He’s just in the fuckin’ toilet.” He was ready to hang up on this cunt. His ears were ringing and he felt the intense need to vomit.

“Well, tell that fuckin’ loser that I’ll be stopping by for my money. On my way right fuckin’ now as a matter of fact.” Franco heard the squealing of brakes and a click as the line went dead. Simon came back into the room, clutching a towel to his lip. He peered at Frank as he returned the phone to the cradle.

“Whae wis that, then?” he asked, obviously more curious than sore about the split lip.

“Some cunt whit wis lookin fir ye, Danny something. Said ye owe ‘im money.” Simon went as white as a sheet.

“Fuck! Nae, Franco, ye didnae tell him Ah wis here, did ye?”

“Aye…,” Franco said, with a shrug. Served the cunt right fir… well, bein a cunt. “On his wey the now, may walk up any fucking meenit.” He was enjoying the expression on Sick Boy’s face, like the cunt was shitin doun ‘is keks. There was a knock on the door, and Franco was certain the cunt really did have shite in his pants now. His shifty eyes flicked to the bedroom for a moment before he darted for the toilet again, slamming the door behind him and throwing the latch.

The knocking continued, becoming louder, and Frank could hear the gadge on the other side screaming, sounding like he was blowing a fucking gasket. He was hardly in any mood to deal with this cunt at the moment, if his manner on the phone was any indication, but if there was one thing that could be said about Francis Begbie, it was that he wasn’t about tae leave a mate in a tough spot. He’d tell the cunt tae git tae fuck, exert a bit ay effort if it wis really cawed fir, and have done wi' it. How fucking bad could this… Danny Devito cunt really be?

Franco turned the lock and opened the door. The man on the other side had not been at all who he was expecting. The man went utterly silent the moment the door opened and Frank could see the muscles in his neck ripple as he swallowed. His too-tight brick-red suit reeked of sweat, his hair was greasy and unkempt, but he was unmistakably the man in whose bed Frank had woken up this morning.

“You!” Franco shouted, his face contorting in anger. The other man took an enormous step back, throwing up his hands in an effort to ward of an attack, but Begbie was on him in an instant, a hand going around his throat as he bowled him over. “Whae the fuck are you?!” Begbie shouted in the man’s face, spit flying every which way. He had his blade out and held it to the cunt’s throat. “Are ye fucking followin' us?”

“Fuckin’ following you?!” the cunt exclaimed, as if he had any right to be affronted after he had drugged Frank and was now apparently following him. “I’m looking for fuckin’ Simon. Owes me ten hundred fuckin’ quid, fuckin’ loser! Nobody gets off with Danny Devine’s fuckin’ money, not that fuckin’ much, not ever fuckin’ again!”

Danny Devine. What a stupid fucking name. He pressed the flat of his blade into the cunt’s neck. “Whit the fuck daed ye dae tae us the last night?!”

“Do? I didn’t do a fuckin’ thing to you, you fuckin’ nutter! Bruises all over my fuckin’ body, sore as a fuckin’ well-used cunt. If anyone fuckin' did something to anyone, I’m willing to fuckin’ take bets that it was you and not fuckin’ me.” Danny managed to get his arm between himself and Frank and pushed him backwards. “We were both fuckin’ drunk, all right? Far too fuckin’ drunk to think straight, obviously.” Frank stood and glared down at Devine as the cunt slowly pulled himself to his feet again, wincing. “Ah…. Er, how much do you fuckin’ remember then?” he asked, taking a few steps back to a safer distance.

Frank was frozen to the spot, fragments of memories coming back to him, but nothing he could quite piece together. He felt dizzy and his head was killing him. He was vaguely aware of Devine stepping close to him, but his gaze was stuck on some point past his head. His vision blurred.

“Ah’m no a fucking bufty….” he said, and it was almost a whisper. Devine was right in front of him now, and Franco felt his knife being slowly pulled from his hand. He couldn’t make himself close his fist to stop it.

“Eh, fuck, ’course you’re not! Course you’re fuckin’ not!” Devine was saying. “But neither the fuck am I, and I don’t fuckin’ remember being all too fuckin’ unhappy about the fuckin’ arrangement last night….” Franco’s eyes snapped into focus suddenly on Danny’s face, his lip curled into a snarl.

“Dinnae fucking talk aboot it, ya cunt.” He looked around the landing for any other residents coming or going. Simon was in the flat, locked safely in the bathroom, but anyone could happen by and hear…. “Dinnae fucking say a fucking word tae naebody.”

“Whatever you fuckin’ say, Begbie.” Begbie narrowed his eyes. He didnae mind ay telling the cunt his name.

"How dae you ken my fucking name?" he asked. Devine closed the knife and handed it back to him, before backing away quickly.

"It's fuckin' written on your fuckin' hand, ya eejit," Danny said, laughing at him. "Also, I fuckin' remembered you saying it last night. Fucking Francis Begbie, right?" He pointed a finger at the door of the flat. “Tell that fuckin’ wanker, Mr. fuckin’ Williamson, that I’ll be fuckin’ expecting him to pay up.” He started down the stairs, sparing a glance back at Begbie before he went out of sight. “And you know where to fuckin’ find me, eh, you fuckin’ cocksucker?” He was gone before Franco could even process the sentiment behind the question.

“ _FUCK_!” Begbie screamed, turning to the wall and planting a fist into the bricks. He heard the snap more than he felt it as a bone in his hand fractured. He was already on his way back into the flat, stepping onto and over the sofa and coffee table. He was going to fucking kill that cunt Sick Boy for fucking associating with cunts like Danny Devine. He was going to fucking set that cunt straight. If the doss cunt’d ne’er borrowed fae that cunt, Franco wouldnae’ve haed tae see the cunt again. This was Sick Boy’s fault, for associating wi' bufty fucking garbage cunts like that. He would set that cunt straight.

It only took one full-speed ramming with his shoulder to break the door from it’s hinges and a second later, he had Simon’s throat in both hands. The cunt would pay fir 'is perr fucking life choices.


End file.
